


The Burnt Up Temple

by Musings_of_a_Monster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Based off Lauralot's APSHDS, Blasphemous Language, Drug Abuse, Gen, M/M Relationship Mentioned, No Rest For The Wicked - Freeform, Nonbinary Character, Religious Imagery & Symbolism (Abrahamic), Swearing, Tangentially related to Hydra Trash Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musings_of_a_Monster/pseuds/Musings_of_a_Monster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow has lost just about everything. Sure, most of it was his doing... Just not the one he hates himself the most for losing.<br/>He'd like to wallow in his own misery and self-destruction in peace, if you don't mind. But some kid collecting recyclables has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burnt Up Temple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [To Be Unmade](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924083) by [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot). 



> Inspired by a tumblr ask on Lauralot's blog. And then weird things happened in my head. It would take place in her APSHDS universe if it actually happened, so imagine an AU of an AU.
> 
> I can't figure out how to fix the formatting. Sorry.

            The clang of aluminum on metal and glass sounded like Rumlow was hearing it through water. The light didn’t look like that, though. It was too bright, but most things were too _something_ anymore.

            His skin was too tight, his pills were too weak. His sheets were too rough, his water was too hot _and_ too cold. His long clothes were too hot, the sun was too much. Life was too much effort, but death was too existentially terrifying (Jack had taught him that phrase, and Rumlow was pretty sure he was using it right).

            Too few people on the entire planet gave half a rat’s ass about him, and the one person who did only cared because he was too mind-fucked to know any better. When the only guy who thinks you’re anything better than dogshit could power a small country for a year with the electricity that’s been blasted through his brains, you know you’ve hit rock bottom. Also that you are, in fact, no better than dogshit.

            Rumlow stared at the too-bright lights partially in defiance, and partially because there was nothing better to look at, because what the television was currently offering him sucked ass. He looked away from the lights to crack open another beer.

            A knock at the door.

            No one who would visit Rumlow would bother to fucking knock.

            Maybe there was a gas leak and they had to evacuate. Maybe if he ignored them, they’d go away.

Another knock.

Fuck it.

Rumlow staggered to his feet and opened the door. “Yeah?”

About a foot and a half lower than him, there was some kid he’d never seen before. Black hair, brown skin, and green eyes which were kind of weirding him out right now. “Hello. I’m collecting recyclables to help restore a temple that was burnt up. Do you have any glass, plastic, or aluminum trash?”

What the fuck? “Nope, sorry, kid.”

He was shutting the door when the kid said, “I’ll come back when you’ve finished that beer, then?” The kid was looking at Rumlow’s left hand.

He would have told goody two shoes to fuck right the fuck off, but those eyes were making the hair on the back of his neck stand up (what was left, anyway). You know what? Fine. What did he care what the little shit thought of him? He got free cleaning out of it, too. “Yeah, I got some recycling shit. But it ain’t in a neat little bag.” Rumlow gestured inside and stepped aside. When they approached the living area and heap of bottles and cans in the corner, he said, “If you can haul it, you can have it.” He sat back down.

“Much appreciated,” the kid smiled. Rumlow wasn’t sure if that was sarcastic or not. He squinted a little as the kid went to work. The kid kinda looked like maybe either an effeminate boy or a butch girl. Boy, probably, seeing as girls weren’t supposed to walk into strangers’ apartments.

“Got a name?” Rumlow asked.

Those green eyes turned back to him a moment and he repressed a shudder. “Some people call me Gabe.”

Well, fuck. Again, probably a boy but… Rumlow was too drunk for this shit. Someone once said there was a not-assholish way to ask. It was something like, “You…have pronouns?”

“No.”

“Whatever,” Rumlow got back to work on his beer and popped another three painkillers into his mouth. He went somewhere else for a little while, and by the time he returned, the kid had finished bagging the bottles and cans. Now, the kid was picking up his pill bottles. “Hey!”

The kid looked at him with those green fucking eyes and smiled, holding up a bottle, “I’m only taking the empty ones with no refills left.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Rumlow must have been drunk and high as shit because that kid and that kid’s damn eyes didn’t change at all, but suddenly gave him the feeling of when he first saw the Alps or the night sky without light pollution or when he first kissed Jack. It was a feeling so fucking awesome it verged on frightening, and this kid had just pushed him over that edge.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked.

“A messenger.”

“Of _what_?”

The kid crouched to Rumlow’s level. “I can’t give you absolution, but I can tell you that the stone around your neck is not yours to carry. Jack doesn’t blame you.”

The blood drained from Rumlow’s face, “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

The kid’s head cocked for a moment. Even though the kid was smiling softly, Rumlow saw in those eyes that the kid could squash him like a bug. Rumlow stared back in defiance. Their gazes held for a moment, and then the kid laughed.

“You’re funny,” said the kid, again without a hint of irony, and stood up. “That’s all you needed to know, anyway. Thank you for your donation.”

The kid extended a hand to help Rumlow up. His first impulse was to knock the hand away, but then decided that would probably be a Westfahl level fuck up. The kid stood patiently, hand still open. Rumlow took it, and was pulled to his feet.

“Goddamn,” Rumlow swore, “You’re a hell of a lot stronger than you look.”

“You really shouldn’t use that first word,” the kid said, “And, yes, I am very strong and I thank you for the compliment.” The kid was making for the door when Rumlow called out.

“Hey!” The kid actually turned at his voice. Rumlow swallowed, “Jack. H-How’d he end up? Where’s he now?”

“Where you needn’t worry about him anymore,” the kid’s weird green eyes met Rumlow’s exactly.

Rumlow trembled slightly and his eyes began to sting and blur, “I-I love him. Jack, I mean.”

The kid’s smile grew even softer, “He knows. But I’ll be sure to reiterate.” Exiting the apartment, the kid said, “Farewell, Brock Rumlow.”

“Yeah, you too,” Rumlow squeezed his eyes until they stopped _stinging_ and returned to where he was sitting. He closed his eyes.

When Rumlow woke, one of those stupid shows Jack watched was playing. Rumlow couldn’t be bothered to change the channel. He finished his beer and threw the empty can in the trash corner. The sound of aluminum hitting drywall was faint.

**Author's Note:**

> Westfahl, who has earned himself his own level in Rumlow's mental scale of fuck up severity, is an OC of Dira Sudis (dsudis). He is, as one might guess, prone to making poor choices and instigating disasters.
> 
> More notes may be added as readers (admit to) piece(ing) things together ;)


End file.
